Heartsblood
by Lex
Summary: an Intimate Roxton/Marguerite Vignette


Heartsblood  
  
by Lex  
  
" ' The years shall run like rabbits,  
  
For in my arms I hold  
  
The Flower of the Ages  
  
And the first love of the world.' "  
  
W. H. Auden  
  
  
  
  
  
Marguerite stood, her back to the door, outwardly still. She half expected to be literally torn apart  
  
by the raging emotions inside her, or shocked into insensibility by the electricity in the air, so off  
  
kilter was her anchor to the known world. Outwardly, she was still. If you were there to see her, only  
  
the rapid pulse in her white throat would have given her away. Roxton didn't need to see the blue vein's frantic  
  
beating against Marguerite's pale skin to know its pounding song. Why would he, when his own blood  
  
throbbed with the identical rhythm? When the life inside him was hers? His secret was the depth of his  
  
knowledge of her, only to be revealed, as a last weapon, when all else failed. The white of her  
  
shoulders blinded him, and the curve of her neck took his breath. His, his, his. His to explore, his to  
  
enjoy, his to feed upon, his to adore, his to love.  
  
She shivered under his hot, hungry gaze. It took every slim bit of will she possessed to continue to stand,  
  
her back to him, her hands (as he preferred) still and waiting, at her sides. She didn't object; her  
  
defenses were not physical ones. His steps, the quiet, purposeful steps of a hunter, came nearer to  
  
her, but she did not look around. She saw his beloved, handsome face so often in her mind – at  
  
night, during her cherished moments alone, even in her times of desperate fear – that she knew the look of  
  
him, his bones, the eloquence of his velvet eyes. Outwardly, she was still.  
  
She was dressed only in panties and a flimsy silk camisole, with silly, thin little shoulder straps. The  
  
garment was cool against her back: strange when you thought about it, really - the color of red flame  
  
should burn, should it not? Her hands (traitors, traitors) itched to leave her sides, to conceal the  
  
hard points of her nipples – easily visible if he would ask that she turn around – peaking against the  
  
crimson material. But he didn't ask. He stood behind her, the wanting strong in him, breathing in the lines  
  
of her body, the contrast of the vividly colored camisole against her pale skin, the way her feet arched in the  
  
high-heeled slippers he insisted she wear. He savored the look of her, and the breathing she was unable to  
  
control. And then, he couldn't wait.  
  
His big, rough hands looked incongruous against the insubstantial shoulder straps, but he was a hunter.  
  
His movements were not rough or crude, though, looking at those hands, you might think they would be.  
  
Actually, Marguerite barely felt their skimming touch against her, but it was enough. The jolt of desire  
  
almost caused her to stagger, to lose her footing, but she was not Marguerite Krux for nothing. If you were  
  
there to see, you would have thought her completely unaffected. Only her half-closed eyes, and the  
  
moisture gathering between her legs would have given her away, and her legs, pressed together and straight,  
  
would have prevented you from seeing that.  
  
The energy emanating from him engulfed her; his strength kept her still. The steel skeleton supporting  
  
her buckled under his heat and intensity, and she didn't mind. Now, the moment he loved best: he gently  
  
took the clip out of her thick hair and watched it tumble down her back. A small groan escaped him  
  
and he buried his face in that softness. No one else could do that. No one else could tangle  
  
their hands in those curls, could twist them into a rope and pull her head back to look in her clear  
  
eyes, could feel the soft length of those strands slither against hard thighs in the night.  
  
Only he had that privilege, that right. Only he could slide those ridiculous little straps down her  
  
shoulders and bite her unprotected neck. He was a generous man but this thing he could not share.  
  
The last vestige of her fragile control was melting. She had not yet rid herself of the panic that  
  
sparked in her when Roxton kissed her, when she felt her own self slipping away to fill his veins. She  
  
trusted him, she knew those expressive eyes would never look coldly at her, but she still was not able  
  
to completely surrender … at the beginning. Involuntarily, she crossed her arms over her chest,  
  
impeding the efforts of the hunter to disrobe her. Her head was down. How could she let him  
  
see her face, her eyes, her open mouth – all so much more revealing than the breasts she  
  
tried to cover? She had not yet completely grasped how intimately he understood her, how he  
  
sensed every mood, how he lived inside her. He wanted to show her every day, over and  
  
over, until she realized, how deeply he loved her.  
  
So he whispered in his husky, bedroom voice, "Put your arms down. Let me … let me take  
  
this off. Let me see, let me, now, please, now. " She stopped breathing; her heart stopped  
  
beating; the blood stilled in her veins. She was alive only where his hands touched her.  
  
"Marguerite …" She knew how his face would look at this very second … his firm jaw line  
  
forever fixed in her mind, the flare of passion in his eyes, the soft hair on his forehead; she  
  
lowered her hands. She ached to turn to him, to kiss his mouth, to press herself against him,  
  
but she knew what he wanted from her tonight, and so she remained passive as he pushed  
  
the silk garment down, down , and she stepped out of it. Roxton marveled that he had  
  
never seen her make an ungraceful move; she was like a cat that way. Her black hair against  
  
her white back; these were the colors of his world. He reached around and felt her  
  
breasts, pressed them, then rested his hands lightly against them. He could feel, from the  
  
shudders coursing through her, how badly she wanted to turn, to put every inch of  
  
her barely-clothed body against his fully-dressed one, to do it hard and immediately and  
  
without restraint, as they so often did; he heard the noises start in the back of her throat  
  
and he was desperately excited. He was the king of the world. He was touching her, he  
  
was kissing her neck and grinding his hips against her silk- covered buttocks, he was pinching  
  
her nipples, and, later, he would taste her mouth. He breathed her name against her hair.  
  
It wasn't enough, it was never enough. He could never get enough. And he knew, he  
  
knew, how he made her yearn for him, how he unsettled and shook her, how he captured her  
  
thoughts and her heart. She thought she could conceal her secrets from him, as  
  
she did from the others, but he accessed them as surely and deftly as he would access  
  
the warmth in between her legs. Roxton was a wise and patient man; he knew taming a  
  
wild creature is a slow process and he steadied her as she bucked her hips against him.  
  
Oh, how real, how arousing, the rough fabric of his shirt against her skin!  
  
His hips were jerking uncontrollably against her ass, and, with an effort, he pulled back.  
  
He wanted this to last. He thrust his hands into the waistband of her panties and  
  
pushed them down her legs, deliberately devouring with his eyes the round swell of her  
  
hips. He burned as he pictured her hip bones jutting out and framing the place where  
  
her legs met; he had memorized in his heart the shape of the bones and the  
  
feel of them. And, when he eventually turned her to face him, he would feast his eyes  
  
on that part of her. There was no sight that he could imagine that was more beautiful,  
  
no work of art that was lovelier than the thrilling design of her body, the working of her  
  
muscles underneath her skin. He placed his eager, greedy hands on the bones  
  
whose image filled his mind. She was melting under his touch, dissolving into a liquid,  
  
and she bit her lip to keep from sobbing. He knew it. He felt the same way.  
  
Oh, God! His, his, his.  
  
He imagined the wetness of her and the heat, and grew impatient, though not careless,  
  
not this night. This night was his way. He whispered softly in her ear his next  
  
instruction, and obediently, (oh, it was so difficult to cede her power!), she bent over,  
  
her palms flat against the wooden floor, her hair sweeping like a waterfall over  
  
the ground. Roxton, seeing her submit to him, and the curve of her back made vulnerable,  
  
almost exploded right then; his remarkable self-control saved him. She was such an intricacy,  
  
such a treasure; even when she was obeying him in these sessions, he could feel the  
  
strength and power pulsing in her; she was only giving because she wanted to,  
  
not because she had to. How could she do it? How could she open herself to him  
  
and yet retain her unyielding strength and autonomy? She fascinated him. She  
  
CHOSE to give herself, she chose to love him, to lie on her back for him, or go on her knees  
  
in front of him and take him in her mouth. She allowed him entry into her body.  
  
He rejoiced in his hold on her yet was awed by the gifts she granted him, and,  
  
seeing her still bending in front of him, motionless and waiting, he was  
  
overwhelmed by lust, by love, by terror, and by the barely contained force of her.  
  
It was so strange to Marguerite. So foreign. She had willingly given up control, for now,  
  
to this hunter, who had stealthily slipped into her dreams, into her life, and she felt not a trace  
  
of weakness. She had thought that if she gave in to her longing to stroke  
  
his back, to suck his tongue, to rest her head on his muscular, tan chest, that that would be  
  
the end of her: the end of Marguerite Krux. The collapse of the castle walls. Yet, she had  
  
admitted her love for Roxton, whose hands were now traveling so deliciously  
  
down the length of her back, down to her buttocks, and defining her with their sure path,  
  
and she felt stronger, more herself, more triumphant, more … more alive than ever before.  
  
She could not resolve the paradox, and she wasn't sure if she still cared to try.  
  
She quivered under his moving hands and, wanting him so badly, made him crave her totally.  
  
She called his name and the sound reverberated in his heart. It always would, whenever she  
  
said his name.  
  
Her legs were still pressed together and his impatience grew. "Open your legs, Marguerite."  
  
His voice sounded harsh but his hands were not, and his love for her was a palpable heat.  
  
"Open them … open them." She hesitated for a moment – what was she  
  
doing?! She was not accustomed to following orders. But his will was inexorable, and  
  
slowly she parted her long legs for him, allowing him a glimpse of the dark curls  
  
between them, and the slick dampness of her seeming to him like the water of life … of HIS  
  
life. Her arms were tight as they remained in their position, supporting her arched body, the  
  
curve of her spine and the fall her breasts as she bent in front of him a vision of  
  
which he never would lose sight. He stood, gazing hungrily at her, knowing she  
  
was open for him, waiting for him to fill her, until her whimpers spurred him onward. He  
  
was still carrying on his belt the leather gloves he had donned earlier in the day to chop wood,  
  
and now he put one on his right hand. He wanted the roughness of the leather against her  
  
soft skin. He took his gloved hand and touched her, then suddenly drove his fingers  
  
into her. He was snared by the sounds she made and by her juices, smeared and glistening,  
  
on the leather glove. He went into her again and again, hearing the liquid sounds his  
  
fingers made in her, and the broken screams and gasps from her mouth. He had never, never  
  
been so excited, felt so powerful, so vital and so consumed by passion and by such a wild love.  
  
He wanted to tell her, but the words his heart was shouting would not form on his lips  
  
and he could only say her name, over and over.  
  
Then, having his fingers in her wasn't enough, and he undid the fly of his  
  
pants; without removing them, he drove into her, so hard she almost was knocked to  
  
the ground. All her sensations were intensified; the fabric of his trousers rubbing  
  
against her delicate skin, the thrust of him, the weight of his large hands on her, were  
  
almost unbearable. She urged him onward anyway, until it was over, and she  
  
could stand up straight again, and turn to face him, and kiss him and kiss him and  
  
kiss him, and try to make each kiss carry the message of her love. But he knew all about  
  
it anyway. She was his; he was hers; she was part of him, and he knew her, and his  
  
love for her was the blood that coursed through him. He lost himself in every  
  
fervent kiss and was happy. 


End file.
